


already dead

by anillegiblemess



Series: KIN SHIT [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Body Dysphoria, Depression, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Graphic Depictions of Illness, HIV/AIDS (implied), Historical References, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Psychosis, Suicide, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8448298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anillegiblemess/pseuds/anillegiblemess
Summary: a sequel to aubade for an american boy(aka ivan fucking dies)





	

**Author's Note:**

> i made a goddamn sequel
> 
> i was actually crying when i wrote this i dont know why. also this is several months late i never got around to posting it because im working my ass off everyday and i dont have time for anything anymore. adulthood is fantastic.
> 
> also again ivan is trans and neurodivergent deal with it ya'll

It was late afternoon when you finally awoke from a dreamless sleep. It was the calmest dream you had since… His hands warming up your cold shoulders; the feeling of the golden sun resting on your cheek, curled up snug in the softest bed. His voice is calm and sweet, lulling, beckoning you. 

 

No, forget it. It had been too long since that time. Alfred was gone. Alfred didn’t care about you anymore. Get up. Get off your ass. Stop moping around. Stop rotting away. You hear Him taunt you. You want to get up but you can’t. Stop taunting me. You wanted to say, but every time you opened your mouth you vomited blood.

 

It had been like this for a while. After they stripped your status as a country due to the misdeeds you had done that you don’t remember and probably never will, you got weaker and sicker. Slowly, you became skin and bones. Your pale clammy skin clung to your frame like moths to light. Your bones became fragile, weak and dry, brittle, breaking at the slightest of bruise. You turned into a newborn once more, becoming too weak to even walk, resorting to crawling on the floor pathetically like some dirty cockroach. And then came the lesions. Dark and purple, indigo like night sky. They spread across your body, painful and noticeable. Your lungs began to give up just a couple weeks ago. You coughed blood. You vomited blood. There was blood everywhere, all over you, covered in your own contagious, sickly filth. 

 

And no one came to help you out. No one was there to watch you suffer and decay. Not even your sisters, having fallen victim to the monstrosities of your past. Monstrosities you don’t even remember. You choke. You’re not sure if it’s you trying to sob or blood bubbling in your throat. You’re so pathetic. So goddamn pathetic. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Let me out, let me do this, I have this all under control. Tears are falling from your face. Please, God, just shut up. Just shut up.

 

He wasn’t going to quit any time soon. You tried to think of Alfred, think of his kind face before you blacked out and began sleepwalking, but His voice clouds the memories and taints them. He takes them from your hands and rips them up. You can see Him in front of you now, looking down at you with that awful smirk. Those are your lips He’s wearing. Was that a flash of crimson? He’s gone before your eyes again. It’s just you and the brick walls of your flat and the cacophonous silence of empty space. Outside, grackles bicker on the skinny telephone wires, petty arguments over scraps of tossed food. Hey, remember the way you punched him? Large fists shattering fleshy cartilage in his nose, the gentle thud as his body hit the ground. He looked back up at you with blood running down his face. Hey, remember the fear in those baby blue eyes? The way they shimmered and glistened, glazed with terror. There was something wrong with the way his face looked. That’s right, his glasses? No. His glasses, right? Alfred wore glasses. You picked up his glasses, no, He picked up his glasses, frames cracked, and put it back on his face, smushed his cheeks and puckered his lips. Hey, remember the feeling of his neck and how it curled perfectly around your fingers? Remember the boom of his back as you smashed it into the wall? Remember him choking and sputtering, eyes confused, mouth agape. He was trying to whisper something to you… He wanted to be let go. No, he didn’t. He liked that pain. He liked being beat up and treated like he was beneath you. No. No he feared you. For wrong reasons, awful reasons. When you realized you were taking the breath from him, you had released him. You stood there, shocked, observing the blood on your hands as he looked at you, betrayed, as if he didn’t know you anymore. You tried to apologize but you were beyond that. You tried to reach for him but he was gone, stumbling away before you could touch him. The last time you touched him was in the most volatile of ways, leaving blood and bruises that you inflicted, no, He inflicted… It was Him, right? It had to be.

 

Alfred didn’t talk to you even when you stopped sleepwalking. He was the first person you thought you could trust. When you showed up at his home, broken, cracked lips begging for forgiveness, he looked away. You showed him the dog tags still around your neck, kept safe underneath your clothes. You said, remember this. Please remember this. Please remember me. He looked at them, face reflected on the metallic surface. His blue eyes were somber, swimming with lethargy. He closed his eyes, turned away, mumbled something underneath his breath. Something about not being able to excuse you for all you had done. He closed the door. And even when you knocked your fists and screamed and cried for him to come back out and face you, to drape the dog tags over your neck like he did in that bathroom long ago, he did not come out. Even when you confessed the darkest secrets of the weeks after that night. The morning sickness, sobbing into a toilet bowl, those coat hanger abortions, the blood trails all over the tile floor of your bathroom; he did not come out. You waited there at his doorstep for so long. You waited until it was dark out. You waited until the next morning. You waited, and waited, and waited.

 

And at the meeting when they officially stripped you of your status as a country, Alfred was there. He watched as Arthur stated your punishment for your misdeeds. As you endured pain after pain once your immortality was taken away, restrained and screaming in a chair in that conference room. You saw him look away. You saw the curl of his lip as he tried not to cry, the way his face scrunched up, eyes closed. You knew that look, that action. But he didn’t protest against anything. Why didn’t he protest? Look at me, goddammit, look at me just look at me. He doesn’t want to look at you. You did this, this is all your fault. Shut up. Please, just be quiet. You wanted to scream His name but your voice was already gone.

 

Now you were here. There was nothing left anymore, just a husk of a man that could’ve been. Man? Why kid yourself. You were no man. You never were. Even after cutting off your damn breasts you still weren’t a man. Did you ever learn to grow up? You never did. You were the same silly girl you always were, way back when you were a kid, getting bullied and teased on. When everyone poked and tugged at your long hair. You cut it off out of impulse, but then people started tugging at your scarf instead.

 

You grab the scarf around your neck. It was ragged and frayed at both ends, holes popped open like the mouth of an angry owl. It was the only thing you still had that reminded you of the life you used to have, when your sisters supported you and cared for you, when you and Alfred would exchange blushing glances across the meeting room. His laughter was music to you, easy-going and full of life. Tears are leaking from your eyes before you realize it. You want him back so bad. Dear God, please bring back the person I once knew.

 

In front of you, the rope on the floor beckons. Everyday it stared at you, waiting. Today it seemed it was pulling for you, strong and hypnotizing. Yes, you want the sweet embrace of death. You must have it right now. You draw the rope close to you and tie the familiar knots. You’ve practiced this many times before. Failed attempts, shuddered and stood back before you tied the damn thing around your neck. Not today. It was better this way, anyway. You would die eventually, on the floor of your house lost and alone, vomiting up the rest of the blood left in your body. It was faster. It was painless. You never wanted pain in your life. You never asked for this.

 

The chair has already been set up. You spent the entirety of your day’s strength pushing that chair to the right spot. Shakily, you stand, immediately keeling over and grabbing the seat of the chair for support. The familiar metallic tang of blood rises in your throat. It leaks out of the corner of your mouth as you upright yourself and stand on the chair. You tie the end of the rope around the wooden boards on the ceiling, put the noose around your neck, just above your scarf, tuck it nice and snug like a well-fitted shirt collar. You look down at the floor beneath you. The ground starts to move. Something tells you to leave, to back down once more. But the other side doesn’t listen. He bangs on the walls of your skull. LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT. You close your eyes. You hear a voice beyond the screams. It’s gentle, has that distinctive Southern twang. It’s the 1960’s. You are at Alfred’s apartment. You’re high and making love. It’s okay, baby. He whispers to you. You kick the chair out from beneath you.

 

You fall. The rope catches you. Your legs dangle, the tips of your toes inches from the floor. Your windpipe closes instantly and instinctively your body begins to struggle. You hear the same voice. He’s shushing you. Your vision fades and you begin to dream. It’s the end of the civil war. You and Alfred are standing in a field together. In your hand is a palmful of sunflower seeds. You dump them in his palms and hold your hand there. He looks up at you and smiles, the freckles dappling his cheeks scrunched up into the corners of his eyes, the sun glinting off his glasses, illuminating the ocean blue of his irises. You put your hand on his cheek and lean in. You want to tell him that you love him but you’re already dead.

**Author's Note:**

> liek dis if u crey evrytiem.


End file.
